Man, woman, and child(9)

"No, Mr. Beckwith. I would prefer to see the sights."

"Please don't be formal, Jean-Claude. Just call me Bob."

"I feel awake, Bob," Jean-Claude said.

Once they were inside the car, Bob asked him, "Do you know how to fasten your seat belt?"



"No."

"I'll help you/'

Bob reached over and toolc hold of the belt. As he fumbled with it, drawing it across Jean-Claude's chest, he brushed him with the side of his hand.

My God, he thought. He's real. My son is real.

In a matter of minutes they were driving through the Sumner Tunnel and Jean-Claude was fast asleep. As they headed south on Route 93, Bob kept the car under the speed limit. The trip normally would take at least an hour and a half. But he wanted as much time as possible to look at the boy. Simply look.

The boy was curled up, leaning his head against the car door.

He looks a little frightened. Bob thought as he drove into the growing darkness. Hell, it's only natural. After all, he had woken up some twenty hours earlier in the sunny security of his native village. Was he afraid when he boarded the connecting flight to Paris that morning? Had he ever been outside the south of France? (That was a nice safe topic they might talk about tomorrow.)

Did someone from TWA meet him in Paris as promised? He had worried about that—a little boy changing planes all by himself. Did he know what to say? Well, obviously. And he seems to have such poise for a nine-year-old.

Nine. He had been alive for almost a decade without Bob's knowing he existed. But then he still doesn't know that J exist. Bob wondered what Nicole had told him of his father.

He looked at the sleeping child and thought, You are a stranger in a foreign land, five thousand miles from home and unaware that I, sitting right beside you, am your father. What would you say



if you knew? Did you miss not knowing me? He looked at him again. Did I miss not knowing you?

The boy awakened just as they were passing Plymouth. He saw the road sign.

'*Is that where the rock is?" he asked.

'Tes. Well visit it sometime. We'll visit all the famous places while you're here."

Then the Cape Cod Canal. And Sandwich. The boy laughed.

*'There is a place called Sandwich?"

"Yes." Bob chuckled with him. ''There's even an East Sandwich."

"Who made up such a funny name?"

"Somebody hungry, I guess," said Bob. And the boy laughed again.

Good, thought Bob, the ice is broken.

Some minutes later, they passed another significant road sign.

"Now that is a reasonable name," said Jean-Claude, grinning mischievously.

"Orleans," said Bob. "Our Joan of Arcs all wear bikinis here."

"Can we go sometime?" he asked.

'Tes." Bob smiled.

WELLFLEET, 6 MILES.

Bob didn't want the trip to end, yet in a few short minutes, end it would. His wife and family were waiting.

"Do you know about my children, Jean-Claude?"

"Yes. Louis said you have two daughters. And your wife is very kind."

"She is," said Bob.

"Did she know my mother too?" he asked.

Jesus, don't ask Sheila that, Jean-Claude.

"Uh—yes. But distantly."



"Oh. Then you were her closer friend."

*'Yes/' Bob answered. And then quickly realized he should add, "I liked her very much."

"Yes/' the boy said softly.

Just then they had reached the corner of Pilgrim Spring Road. In sixty seconds they'd be home.



J



1 HEY ALL STARED AT HIM WITH DIFFERING EMO-

tions.

Sheila felt an inward tremor. She thought she had prepared herself for this. But she was not prepared. The little boy now standing in her living room was his. Her husband's child. The impact far exceeded everything she had imagined. Because, she realized now, a part of her had been refusing to accept the truth. But there was no escape now. Proof was standing there before her, four feet tall.

''Hello, Jean-Claude. We're glad to have you." That was the most that she could manage. Every syllable took painful effort. Would he notice that she couldn't smile?

''Thank you, madame," he answered. "I am very grateful for your invitation."

"Hi, I'm Paula."

"Very glad," he answered with a smile. Her heart was his.

At last the one aristocrat among them spoke.

"Jean-Claude, je suis Jessica. Avez vous fait un bon voyage?''

"Ouz, mademoiselle. Voire frangais est eblouis-sant"



"What?" Jessie had prepared herself to talk French, not to understand it.

And Bob watched as the youngsters spoke. He thought, My God, they're all my children.

''His English is terrific," said Paula to her sister, *'and your French is terrible."

'Taula!" Jessie snarled, and sent her sister to the guillotine with filthy looks.